Sarah Was Drowning as a Burnt Out Caregiver in Minneapolis — Adult Day Care Was the Answer
If you’re the sole caregiver for a parent with advanced dementia in the Twin Cities — you are not just burnt out.
You are disappearing.
And nobody is noticing.
This is Sarah’s story.
Hi, my name is Sarah, and I live in a quiet suburb just outside Minneapolis. I’m telling you this because I’m drowning, and I don't know who else to tell.
For three years, I’ve been the primary, sole caregiver for my mother, Eleanor, who has advanced dementia. I used to be a daughter; now I am a 24/7 warden, nurse, maid, and target for her anger.
My Mother
Mom is 84, but she seems to shrink a little more every day. She was once vibrant, but now she is thin and frail, her back bent from osteoporosis. Her white hair is wispy and thin, usually tangled because she fights me when I try to brush it. She wears nothing but elastic-waistband pants and baggy sweaters—clothes that are easy to get on and off, which is crucial because I'm handling her hygiene.
Her emotions are a volatile cocktail of terror, confusion, and suspicion. She will spend an hour crying because she can’t find her mother, who has been dead for twenty years, and the next hour accusing me of stealing her purse, which is sitting right in her lap.
Our Life in the Twin Cities
Our house, once a warm home in the Twin Cities, is now a high-security lockdown. I had to put childproof locks on the outside doors because she tries to wander out at 3 a.m.. The house is a mess. I can’t keep up. There are absorbent pads everywhere, and the air constantly smells of antiseptic wipes and stale coffee. The living room is arranged for safety—no throw rugs, electrical cords are hidden, and her "comfort" items are organized on a table, though she frequently shreds her own tissue paper out of nervous energy.
The Daily Chaos
The days start when she screams for me at 4 a.m. I haven't slept through the night in two years.
Memory & Falling: She forgets to stand before she tries to walk. She forgets that she cannot walk without her walker. Last week she fell in the hallway, and it took everything I had to lift her 130-pound body off the floor.
Incontinence: Sometimes she forgets where the bathroom is, or can’t make it in time. Cleaning up accidents, cleaning her, and changing the bedding is my daily routine.
Sundowning: Around 4 p.m., she becomes incredibly agitated, argumentative, and aggressive. She hits me, pulls my hair, and yells that I am not her daughter and that she wants to go home—even though we are sitting in her home of 40 years.
Isolation and No Break
I haven’t had a day to myself. I can’t run errands. If I leave for 10 minutes, I come back to her having torn up mail or flooded the kitchen sink. I am completely isolated. My friends stopped calling because I always say no, or because I’m too tired to talk. I look in the mirror and I don't recognize myself—I’m losing weight, I’m constantly shaking from stress, and I’m deeply depressed.
I feel like I am in prison. I love my mother, but I need help. I desperately need space, a respite worker, someone—anyone—to take this burden for just one day. I am at my breaking point, and I feel like I'm dying right along with her.
You’ve been disappearing long enough.
Renaissance has immediate openings in Coon Rapids and Eagan.
Start your enrollment here — it takes less than five minutes.
Coon Rapids: (763)-433-2980
Eagan: (651)-452-0811